


his love against his wisdom

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (and he thinks that's a good thing), Banter, Blow Jobs, First Time, Foreshadowing, Gen, In which Mablung is a good bro but not a good wingman, M/M, Sexual Humor, while Beleg pines a bit and Turin is somewhat oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Falling into bed with Túrin Turambar cannot be a good idea.As Mablung elaborates on at length.Just in case Beleg has missed what his fellow guard thinks of what he has taken to calling Beleg's infatuation.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Mablung of Doriath, Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	his love against his wisdom

Falling into bed with Túrin Turambar cannot be a good idea.

As Mablung elaborates on at length.

Just in case Beleg has missed what his fellow guard thinks of what he has taken to calling Beleg's infatuation.

"Cúthalion, the brat is marked. Fate-touched. You know it, I know it, anyone in these lands with half an eye to _see_ knows it." Mablung slams his tankard down against the rough wooden table for emphasis.

"Mmmmm." Beleg has already heard this talk, or variations on it, five times since he appeared before Elu Singollo the previous morning seeking leave to find Túrin in the wilds beyond Doriath, but still. It would be rude to cut off his oldest friend mid-rant. Wouldn’t it?

Mablung, of course, does not seem to realize that this is restraint on Beleg's part. "You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you."

Best come clean with it, then. "No."

"You _haven't_. I _knew_ it. Why ever not? Do you think I am wrong, Cúthalion? Balls of Belegûr, if you want your cock sucked that badly then _I_ will do it, and you know I don't even swing a sword that way."

"A kind offer," Beleg tells him mildly. "But I am still leaving Doriath. I simply seek his welfare, old friend."

"Like the hells you do," Mablung retorts, just as quiet but not nearly as mild. "Say again what you said to Singollo this morning past, Cúthalion."

"Mablung. . ." All of a sudden Beleg knows exactly which words his friend is driving at, and he does not wish to rehash this new addition to a well-trod argument. Stars' sakes, he has only tarried this extra day in Menegroth because he is still awaiting the arrival of Anglachel from the deepest parts of Singollo's treasuries!

" _Beleg_ ," Mablung parrots. "Say it, old friend. Say again what you said to Singollo that persuaded him to part with his greatest retainer."

Beleg sighs. "Yet still would I seek him, though it is to yield to my love against my wisdom."

Mablung sighs as well. "And there you have it. Even you know how much of a fool you look, and sound, to run off pursuing him. Turambar erred, and then he guessed what the consequences might be, and then he ran. Is that truly the kind of man you would have between your legs, Cúthalion?"

Beleg sighs again, longer this time, and claps his oldest friend on the shoulder. Perhaps it is time to tell him, then. "I have never bedded him, Heavy Hand."

" _What_?"

"You heard me," Beleg says softly. "I never had Túrin in the first."

Mablung makes a strangled noise into the depths of his tankard, sounding as though his patience has ebbed along with his drink. "Then _why,_ Cuthalion. _Why_ must you follow him."

He can only tell Mablung what he told Elu Singollo.

"I love him, old friend, and it does not matter whether following him is the wisest course of action, I still must do it. I must know that he is safe, and that he knows he always has a place here."

Mablung is still grumbling even as he flaps a hand at the poor boy keeping tabs at the guards' drinking hole. "Another! I cannot take any more of this one without it." Then, to Beleg he adds: "If you must go, then please at least bring the young fool back here where we can keep an eye on the both of you. Lovelorn sap. And Cúthalion, don't you get any ideas about tumbling him before he gets you in a proper bed."

"What makes you think he will get me?" Beleg asks, curious.

Mablung snorts, and takes a deep draught from the fresh tankard. "Don't redirect, Cúthalion. And please, listen to yourself speaking about him before you ask me such stupid questions."

~ ~ ~

Beleg tends to follow his friend's advice.

Sometimes.

When it makes sense.

It doesn't always make sense, though.

Particularly not when he finally finds Túrin among a group of Mannish outlaws, and the Man is alive and well and whole, and Beleg's heart swells with relief at finding him thus.

And then Túrin learns why Beleg has come to him, and what Beleg told Elu Singollo about him, and then the matter is out of Beleg's hands entirely because it turns out that Túrin is just as eager and willing as Beleg is himself, and in the larger picture of things who is Beleg to tell Túrin _oh, Mablung Heavy-Hand thinks that we are both fools and this is a bad idea._

The will of Beleg Cúthalion is nearly as legendary as the great strong black bow for which he is named.

But it has met its match in Túrin Turambar, who fells the will of Beleg Cúthalion with their first rough kiss.

~ ~ ~

Ah well. Perhaps he can tell Mablung that he tried.

Probably not, though, seeing how their very first time together goes.

"Do you think that I would kneel for just anyone?" Beleg asks, amused.

"No," Túrin says, his voice greatly deepened by arousal. "But you would do it for me, wouldn't you."

Brat. He doesn't even make it a question. Beleg shakes his head, as fond as he is exasperated. "You and your impudence, boy."

He has barely gotten out the words before Túrin's hand is rising, settling at the back of Beleg's head and making a rough fist in his hair. It is –

Oh.

It is not an unpleasant feeling.

"That is not a _no,_ Cúthalion," Túrin rumbles, and as Beleg tries to shake his head a bit, clear out the sudden fog that has descended upon his eyes, that grip actually _tightens_. Túrin's days with sword and shield have given him a firm and calloused grip that leaves Beleg seeing _stars_.

"It is not," he agrees, somewhat unsteady. And he yields his head to Túrin's hand, following where his love would lead him – which, it seems, is first to Túrin's lips, and then to his knees in the grass at Túrin's feet.

"Long have I dreamed of this," Túrin murmurs, his eyes wide and wondering when they meet Beleg's. "So many nights I imagined what it might be like, to have you with me in this way. And never did I think to see it in any waking hour."

"And I, the same," Beleg promises quietly, voice rasping already and less eloquent than he would prefer.

Never one to leave a mood unturned, Túrin raises one brow, a cheeky smile lurking at one corner of his mouth. "But did your dreams include the view, Cúthalion?"

"Brat!" Beleg accuses him helplessly, laughter suddenly threatening to spill out of his chest. "I come all this way to find you, and the first thing you want to know is whether I have ever imagined sucking you off?"

"But have you?" Túrin presses, still grinning as he fumbles at his laces with the hand that is not keeping a death grip in Beleg's hair.

"I will need to hear some better bed-talk before I answer that, boy." And there is more that Beleg would add, there truly is, but then Túrin's length is freed and ready right there before him. Without even stopping to think of it, Beleg wets his lips and leans in, and there is a great intake of breath from Túrin above him as he does.

" _Beleg_!"

Though not many have been granted his mouth before, Beleg has had ages with which to hone this skill. It is Túrin who chokes with the depth, not Beleg; Túrin who gives a quiet moan at the speed, not Beleg. And when he twists his head beneath Túrin's hand, to angle his head up and meet Túrin's eyes, Beleg is pleased to see that his skill has driven the Man to biting into his fist to keep his ruffians from overhearing anything.

But Túrin is not one to leave any mood unturned, and at heart it seems he yet retains something of that selfish brat Beleg remembers meeting, not so long ago.

Suddenly both his hands are at Beleg's head, and they are holding him in place so that Túrin can thrust harder.

 _Ow_.

Beleg pulls off, coughing. “Ow. Ow ow _ow_. Who taught you your bed-manners, boy?”

"Your mother," Túrin shoots back, panting, with all the speed of a Man used to racing his companions for who can say so first. Then, when Beleg snorts, he seems to realize how useless a goad this is against one who woke alone beneath the stars at Cuiviénen, and quickly revises: "I mean, Mablung."

Beleg snorts louder, now more amused by the jab then annoyed at Túrin's lacking manners. "Oh he did? You poor creature, that explains so much."

Túrin does not offer his apologies in so many words, but then, Beleg did not expect him to – rarely does the Man put his feelings to words, ever preferring to enact them instead. And now, true to form, his left hand simply flies to the tree he leans against, nails digging into the bark; his right resumes its place in Beleg's hair, but with a gentler fistful than before. "Beleg, please, can you not pity me for this ill-luck later?"

Ever has his wisdom yielded to his love, and now is no different. With a last amused huff, Beleg permits his head to be guided forward once more, and it does not take much more before Túrin is shaking apart upon his tongue.

At least Túrin has the manners to finish him with his hand, after, and he kindly does not comment when it takes Beleg only a few strokes. He also lets Beleg gather him closer with only a minimum of fuss.

"And that is how I know it was not truly Mablung," Beleg tells him solemnly, laughing when Túrin pokes at his side with a hiss.

"I regret my mouth already, please do not make it any worse," Túrin groans. "Surely Mablung will forgive me for taking his name in vain."

"Mmmmm." Beleg is distracted by his latest new opportunity, the chance to nuzzle into Túrin's thick locks. "I am not so certain about that, but. A story for another day."

Túrin squirms in his arms, wriggling and pinching until Beleg, chuckling, allows him enough room to turn around so that the Man is facing him now, grey eyes narrowed with concentration as he struggles to parse these scraps of story. "Will he truly be angry?"

"For a jest made at my expense during the height of pleasure?" Beleg tells him. "No."

"Then?" Túrin asks, brow furrowed so deliciously that Beleg is compelled to lean forward, trying to kiss the wrinkles away. "What would he not forgive me for?"

"It is nothing," Beleg says absently, now completely enamored of the way that Túrin's curls can be wound around his fingers. It is a relief, and a wonder, to be this close to him after so long spent doubting. "He seems to imagine that you will be my undoing, that is all."

"Then _he_ is the fool, and an unbelievable one at that," Túrin says hotly, halfway to pushing out of Beleg's arms and marching all the way back to Doriath to confront the other senior marchwarden. Beleg must gentle him down again like a startled fawn. "For I would never undo you, Beleg Cúthalion: I would know you, and I would choose you, always, though the Dark One himself stood to curse me."

"Do not say such things." Beleg is not fretting, of course he is not, but the very thought of the Moringotto getting His claws into this Man, as He is rumored to have done with Túrin's own father, is enough to make Beleg wild enough to swear his own oaths. "If it came to that, I would rather you did not know me, and that you acted as you needed to preserve your own safety."

"It will not come to that," Túrin says airily, brash with the spring of Mannish youth and cheerful, drowsy, with the relief of a recent orgasm. And somewhere behind them, Anglachel seems to hum with its own sated noises, but Beleg pushes that aside for later.

Love, not wisdom, has brought him this far, and he imagines that it will be love, not wisdom, that continues to guide him toward Túrin for all the days the Man has left to live. 

**Author's Note:**

> Of course Beleg here gets the line paraphrasing one of my absolute fav quotes about these two: "But still Túrin would not return to Doriath; and Beleg yielding to his love against his wisdom remained with him, and did not depart" (Ch. 21)
> 
> also, I found this as a WIP dated 12/17/2018, which seemed like as good a reason as any to dust it off, completely rewrite it, and post it now XD


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